Read Online Masters of the Night by Elizabeth Brockie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Brockie
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marsh. “Scallops sound good.”
The waiter grinned broadly and greeted them in French. “Bonsoir, vous êtes prêts à commander?”
“Ah oui . Je voudrais les coquilles St. Jacques,” Angie responded,
ordering the scallops.
“And for a wine?” Henri asked.
“Bordeaux?” she suggested.
“Nous voudrions une demi-bouteille de Bordeaux pour mademoiselle,”
Henri’s resonant voice requested from the waiter.
Angie watched Henri DeLaCroix with intense
interest—the rich voice no one could turn away from, the muscles with sinewy
strength unfettered by mortal limitations, the slight trace of warmth under the
loosely buttoned cotton shirt.
Warmth …
How could a vampyre have any traces of
warmth?
The wine came. He poured them both a goblet to sip until her food
arrived.
As Henri lifted his wine glass to his lips and relished the bouquet,
the color and the taste before he drank deeply, Angie caught a change in his
eyes, just a flash, a flicker others might not have
even noticed. The pleasure in his eyes was rare, from another century.
Then the gaze centered on her, deeply focused. “Angie, that night,
offering you damnation with me to save you— Yes, it was probably not the best
decision I’ve ever made, especially considering you are a mystic, but you were
dying. Your lover tried to kill you. Do you not remember?”
She was barely able to answer, the shock smacked so hard. “No, I … My lover?”
Was he telling her the truth?!
“The human mind often blocks what it cannot accept, trauma too deep to
relive,” he said carefully. “Can you believe me though you cannot yet touch
that night?”
The scallops came, but mostly she just pushed them around on her plate,
her appetite lost, sloshing around in a nervous sea with her bile.
“I sense good in you, Henri. But I don’t remember much of that night,”
she finally said. “For me, for now, you’re a vampyre ,
and a few good notes don’t necessarily salvage a bad melody.”
“Perhaps I can at least work on the lyrics?” He pulled the little
velvet pouch from his coat pocket. “Open your hand.”
She gazed at him uncertainly.
He took her hand in his and turned it palm side out.
She felt her breath catch as he held her hand. He didn’t just walk in
lightning. Electricity once again traveled along her arm in a bolt of pleasure.
A notched silver cross with
a sunburst fell into her palm from the pouch.
“My cross!” Angie cried
elatedly.
“You lost it when you were struggling with your attacker,” he said,
releasing her hand. “I had it repaired.”
The sunburst caught the soft light from the table lamp in its rods and
shone like translucent gold.
The master vampyre seemed to find it
difficult to take his eyes from the golden sheen. Was it a longing, a wish,
just to see a sunrise? Angie wondered.
As his eyes moved to his wine glass, she wondered if perhaps like her,
he had decided long ago that wishes and dreams were for fools, lovers and old
men on park benches. Though she kept trying to believe
otherwise.
She slipped the cross back in the pouch.
“You are not going to wear it?” Henri asked curiously.
“Do I need to?” she countered softly.
Lightning streaked across his eyes. Then it was gone. Taking the pouch
by the satin strings, he dropped it into her blouse breast pocket. “It would be
better if you didn’t.”
Although he did not touch her, Angie felt the essence of him, brushing
her like the quick edge of a sea wind.
She took a quick sip of her wine to steady her nerves. “You said you’re
eight-hundred years-old?”
“Eight hundred and thirty-two.” A tease curled
into his smile.
“That’s a lot of lovers.”
“No, that’s a lot of sex. I have only been in love once. And it was a
disaster. My lover was not what I expected.”
“Apparently mine almost killed me.”
“Mine tried.”
He poured them a second swirl of wine and raised his glass in a mock
toast. “Here’s to disastrous love affairs,” he
The waiter grinned broadly and greeted them in French. “Bonsoir, vous êtes prêts à commander?”
“Ah oui . Je voudrais les coquilles St. Jacques,” Angie responded,
ordering the scallops.
“And for a wine?” Henri asked.
“Bordeaux?” she suggested.
“Nous voudrions une demi-bouteille de Bordeaux pour mademoiselle,”
Henri’s resonant voice requested from the waiter.
Angie watched Henri DeLaCroix with intense
interest—the rich voice no one could turn away from, the muscles with sinewy
strength unfettered by mortal limitations, the slight trace of warmth under the
loosely buttoned cotton shirt.
Warmth …
How could a vampyre have any traces of
warmth?
The wine came. He poured them both a goblet to sip until her food
arrived.
As Henri lifted his wine glass to his lips and relished the bouquet,
the color and the taste before he drank deeply, Angie caught a change in his
eyes, just a flash, a flicker others might not have
even noticed. The pleasure in his eyes was rare, from another century.
Then the gaze centered on her, deeply focused. “Angie, that night,
offering you damnation with me to save you— Yes, it was probably not the best
decision I’ve ever made, especially considering you are a mystic, but you were
dying. Your lover tried to kill you. Do you not remember?”
She was barely able to answer, the shock smacked so hard. “No, I … My lover?”
Was he telling her the truth?!
“The human mind often blocks what it cannot accept, trauma too deep to
relive,” he said carefully. “Can you believe me though you cannot yet touch
that night?”
The scallops came, but mostly she just pushed them around on her plate,
her appetite lost, sloshing around in a nervous sea with her bile.
“I sense good in you, Henri. But I don’t remember much of that night,”
she finally said. “For me, for now, you’re a vampyre ,
and a few good notes don’t necessarily salvage a bad melody.”
“Perhaps I can at least work on the lyrics?” He pulled the little
velvet pouch from his coat pocket. “Open your hand.”
She gazed at him uncertainly.
He took her hand in his and turned it palm side out.
She felt her breath catch as he held her hand. He didn’t just walk in
lightning. Electricity once again traveled along her arm in a bolt of pleasure.
A notched silver cross with
a sunburst fell into her palm from the pouch.
“My cross!” Angie cried
elatedly.
“You lost it when you were struggling with your attacker,” he said,
releasing her hand. “I had it repaired.”
The sunburst caught the soft light from the table lamp in its rods and
shone like translucent gold.
The master vampyre seemed to find it
difficult to take his eyes from the golden sheen. Was it a longing, a wish,
just to see a sunrise? Angie wondered.
As his eyes moved to his wine glass, she wondered if perhaps like her,
he had decided long ago that wishes and dreams were for fools, lovers and old
men on park benches. Though she kept trying to believe
otherwise.
She slipped the cross back in the pouch.
“You are not going to wear it?” Henri asked curiously.
“Do I need to?” she countered softly.
Lightning streaked across his eyes. Then it was gone. Taking the pouch
by the satin strings, he dropped it into her blouse breast pocket. “It would be
better if you didn’t.”
Although he did not touch her, Angie felt the essence of him, brushing
her like the quick edge of a sea wind.
She took a quick sip of her wine to steady her nerves. “You said you’re
eight-hundred years-old?”
“Eight hundred and thirty-two.” A tease curled
into his smile.
“That’s a lot of lovers.”
“No, that’s a lot of sex. I have only been in love once. And it was a
disaster. My lover was not what I expected.”
“Apparently mine almost killed me.”
“Mine tried.”
He poured them a second swirl of wine and raised his glass in a mock
toast. “Here’s to disastrous love affairs,” he
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